As the demon approached him, Morus' could almost taste the dejection on his lips. He had failed to cause much harm to his opponent, he had failed to put up even a halfway decent fight, and worst of all, he had failed to die with what little dignity his life had to offer. Hell ever after awaited him when he turned eighteen, and his goal of feeling spike through flesh and pain unending melted away to the humiliation of his weakness. Perhaps it was a hell of its own kind, but not really one that would steel him for his fate. His opponent offered platitudes, but the boy would hear none of it. The words of warriors honored a cult of heroism that he never understood, despite the fact that both they and he seemed to so recklessly seek death.

Again Morus felt a fist against his head, and this time he sent his whole world to a dizzying black. His unconscious form fell into the reflecting pool behind him, were his last thoughts were a desperate need for breath, until there was nothing left to think.

***

He awoke what seemed hours later on a cold marble slab. His clothes were still damp from when he fell, and fresh bandages adorned the sore spots on his head and chest. Fussing about him was the same portly monk from earlier, who fiddled with a concoction inside a mortar and pestle. He turned to Morus as he felt him stir, and applied more of a strange smelling substance over the bandages.

“You're lucky, you know,” the monk said half-looking at the boy. “Your opponent went easier on you in there than many would do in his place. Even pulled you out of that pool before your could drown.”

Morus tried to sit up, but could only manage to get halfway. His body was still sore, and the room he was treated in stank so badly of incense that he felt sick to his stomach. He sighed a little, and tried to shoo away the monk's hand, only to be rebuked by a slight slap and a tightened bandage.

“I don't feel so lucky,” the boy moaned. He rested one hand on his head, trying to block out the flickering candlelight that surrounded him.

“Why do you seek death so?” The monk stopped what he was doing to stare down the boy.

“Forgive my impertinence at an impermanent death,” Morus sassed back, but he could see the monk wasn't moved one way or another by his words.

“Death here may not be permanent,” he began, walking over to a bowl of water to wash his hands. “But the memories of it sure are. You might not count yourself lucky, but I envy you.” He finished washing and dried himself on a nearby towel. “You should be able to find your way out when you are able.”

With that the monk left, leaving the boy alone with his thoughts. He curled up against his knees as best he could, and felt again the sting of a tear begin to form in his eye.